


When Sinews Give Way

by amituvia



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Art, Fix-It, Memory Issues, Other, PTSD, art therapy, comes in more ways than one, non binary character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25001995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amituvia/pseuds/amituvia
Summary: He kept the pelt. A part of it. Head to chest. No as a trophy of victory but as one of survival. A reminder rather than a prize. Francis understood that, thankfully. It now rested at the bottom of the chest in which he kept his petticoats.In which Francis struggles to remember, and James tries to help with the power of art.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	When Sinews Give Way

**Author's Note:**

> yea so this is my first fanfic since like, highschool, it's unbeta'd, and english is not my first language, but with the fandom being so teeny-tiny i felt rather compelled to add something to it, especially with how much it helped me get through these last few months. so hope you enjoy and let me know if you did or if i made any awful grammatical error.

It was easy to get sucked into the whirlwind of Goodsir’s excitement, reminiscing on the better parts of the expedition. The wildlife new and curious, the icebergs like cakes, the men all in good cheer and the possibility of discovery. They were going at it for hours now, feeding off each other’s merriment, James feeling nearly drunk with it, for the first time in a while a friend more than an officer.

The doctor is trying to write down a book about arctic fauna and asked for his assistance with sketching some of the creatures James helped with. It is a shame Lt. Irving never took interest in such things, as his talent with colors surpassed James’ own, but Goodsir seemed positively giddy when he showed him his work.

“ _you know,_ ” Goodsir once told him on board _Erebus_ , “ _It was Robert Hooker that inspired me to come here. Him and Charles Darwin discovered such marvelous things on their voyages! Should I stumble upon half as much as they did, I shall find myself twice as happy._ ”

It is good to see Harry so much like his old self again, as well as Mr. Collins with which he had taken residence, who’s seemingly content with sitting quietly and smiling around his pipe from his place by the window.

For over a year the man walked around them with a fixed look of despair on his face - an accumulation of all of their sorrows - and James, seeing this, watching as it all progressed, feared he was watching another death he could not prevent. Yet Collins had found comfort in Harry, whichever way that comfort may be, and that comfort has landed him a peaceful spot in the soft light of a better weather.

They drew a few more things since his arrival. Slowly, as they kept interrupting each other with a tale of this or that. It is nearly six and dim outside when Mr. Collins leans down to whisper something into Harry’s ear, interrupting the doctor’s amusing tale about an Ornithologist he is acquainted with. “Will you be having dinner with us, captain?” calls the doctor immediately after Mr. Collins straightens, causing both of his companions to smile at one another.

James, who had originally came over for luncheon, halts for a moment, suddenly feeling himself imposing. “No thank you, gentlemen.” He smiles, and gets up by supporting himself with the armrest of his chair. “Best be heading back now, really. Before it goes completely dark outside.”

“Well,” Says Goodsir, deflating slightly, “Send our best regards to captain Crozier, then,”

It rains on the end of his way back. A drizzle he largely doesn't mind but his leg didn’t care for, and as soon as he arrives, he drops heavily on the couch, groaning as he does. It seems a letter from Dundy arrived during his absences, as one is currently resting unopened on the small table before him. It could wait a while longer.

“Francis?” He calls out.

Francis had fallen into a bout of melancholy a few days ago as he sat to write Lt. Jopson recommendation letter to officiate his new status. He managed to fight his way into good cheer for dinner yesterday, and James very much wants to see if the same can be done for him today.

After giving his leg a final rub, he goes up the stairs in search for the man, ready to make a show of being ignored. “Francis?”

He opens the door to Francis’ room to find the man sitting by his desk, bending over a sheet of paper, the soft scratch of his pen easing James into the scene and off his intended racket. He closes the door behind him, making Francis turn in shock. “I called out for you twice. Is your hearing giving up on you, old man?”

Francis stares at him mutely for a moment, blinking several times until a small smile finds its way to his lips. His fingers are entwined, his posture still somewhat hunched, drawing into himself, shy as a snail. “Pardon me, James. It seems that I was lost in thought.”

“And what is it that occupied you so completely?” Teases James, crossing his hands.

Francis, apparently not quite capable of good humor just yet, casts him a somewhat frightened look, his tone growing awkward as he answers. “I… I recalled you told me how much art helped you these last few days with…Putting your mind to right, and organizing your thoughts. And. I like your art so well I. thought I might. Try. Myself.”

James’ first impulse is to grin broadly. He might have even clapped his hands together and snatched the drawing if it were another man, but in the face of Francis’ obvious discomfort keeps himself contained, softening his face in placating manner. “May I have a look?”

Francis deliberately put down his pen, the orange light of the candles around him making his unease all the more evident. “James. It is… Not as good as your own work, to say in the least.”

“Ah, but I hear that beauty is a subjective matter.”

Thankfully, he is rewarded with a tiny smile once more. “That is not quite how that saying goes,”

“Well, we of artistic bearings must be allowed a bit of freedom, or nothing new will never be done!” He gestures theatrically, hoping it would amuse Francis further, and glad to see that indeed his posture relax somewhat. “Your style might just be a dramatic and daring entrance to the field on your part – give the romantics something to mutter about, eh?”

“A dramatic opening shot.” Quips Francis, his gap showing between his lips.

James laughs, enjoying the tease. “Good god man! At times I think you spent your months of brooding memorizing whichever barb we used against one another.”

“Not too far from it,” says Francis, and then, as if testing his mettle, he reaches to the table, grabs the sketch, and hands it over to James.

He takes it into his hands almost greedily, making sure to keep his open joy fixed on Francis as he does, before looking down.

_Oh._

After his confession at victory point, they were both happy to just walk quietly by one another. With the thick mist around them, James felt as seen as he liked – only by Francis. Under its emboldening cover they could openly bask in this new sense of comradery between them. Every few moments, James glanced at Francis and always received a fond look in return, feeling so full he had no room for words.

But then a growl sounded just in front of them, cutting cleanly through that calm.

Straight ahead, a large blurry figure was speeding their way.

They both raised their weapons at once, as fearful as they were determent.

Out of reflex more than anything, James took aim, and pulled the trigger.

The misty curtain lifted as the shot rang out, revealing a white bear.

All three of them froze in that moment, or at least, that is how James recalls it: with this normal bear staring at them, eyes wide open, a hole in the front of its head and great splatter of red at its back, with Francis poofing out a breath of air that slowly curled and joined the mist about them, and James still up holding his musket, his hands miraculously steady.

But then the bear fell over, and they found themselves laughing – so hard they cried! – and falling and hugging and kissing and kissing and kissing.

He looks up at Francis now. Somehow, this was not what he expected. Thought honestly, few things made more sense. The image is simplistic, childish with lack of practice, but with the eeriness of the scene still shining through. A large stain of ink is places at the center of the bear’s head, the edges of it showing individual pen strokes. Francis likely started from a small circle and then kept increasing its size.

“I barely remember what happens next,” Whispers Francis. A shameful confession by the tone of it.

James, sensing fragility, looks at him and nods carefully. “The subconscious mind dismisses unpleasantness more readily than the conscious one at times. It happens. Often, even.”

“Does it?” His hand goes to his temples. He looks like he is going to have one of his migraines again.

“Most battles I’ve been through were a blur for me and their aftermath even more so. Same for those kidnaps and whatnot.”

“What if I were to tell you It’s not just that? What if I told you that there are days – perhaps weeks even – that I know I should remember, but when I search for them all I find is fog. Sometimes I feel as if my mind decided that what I do is none of my business.”

 _How long was that weighing on him?_ James wanders, suddenly understanding the man’s recent mood. He walks behind him and silently places a hand on each of his shoulders, stroking lightly with his thumbs – an act he hopes would provide Francis both the reassurance of his presence and some sort of privacy to collect his thoughts. He never much liked being watched while feeling so down. “Is that the reason for your latest melancholy? That you could not recount events on which you wished to congratulate Jopson?”

“Thankfully, in all my years of knowing him Jopson had done nothing but earn my praise … But there was a moment in which I tried to put to paper - how well he helped Edward with the men, how he shot that rat Hickey dead when he tried to steal away with all that meat - and I… could barely…” He licks his lips. “It is like an ancient mosaic. I can make out the image, but too much is missing when it comes to the fine details of it. I fill the gaps best I can, but isn’t that the same as letting myself see what I want to see? A deception, is what this feels like. I would like to be firmly past such self-trickery, yet here I am now - unable to truly discern whether I’m doing it or not.”

James sighs, and continues to rub Francis’ shoulders, not sure if a kiss would be welcomed right now. “Why did you not mention this sooner, so that I might help you with these lapses and perhaps lift some of the unease they caused you?”

That causes Francis to shift beneath him. “I fear you would be unjustly forgiving with your words.”

“unjust is not my way, at least never knowingly.”

“Isn’t it?” Snorts Francis. “I seem to recall a man who had been cruel and contradictive towards you in a very open fashion for a very long time, giving you no reason to gift him with your friendship and trust, and yet as soon as an opportunity presented itself, you gave them both completely and without hesitation. The very picture of charity.” He shakes his head almost angrily. “No, James. I need to see this through my eyes.”

James cannot help but bristle at the words, the dismissive tone in which they were spoken. His eyes narrow as he walks to stand in front of Francis, affectively towering over the man from his sitting position. “While your view of things is entirely unbiased? I say, Francis, the truth is not any truer by being crueler! Even if I were to pick gentler words than you, how would that be any different than your unwavering lack of kindness towards yourself? Harshness verging self-flagellation! These are notions that will sink you, rather than allow you swim away from this misery, and god damn me right now if you think I will allow any more of that to touch you!” His voice increased in volume when he spoke, the last sentence could probably be heard from the front door.

“That is not how I meant it,” He says apologetically, his eyes wide. “It is simply that… There was a process here, hmm? We both found ourselves reaching the same place, but different roads lead us here. Whichever road I walked, I fear I am now missing those private miles.” He takes James’ hand and rests it between both of his own.

James sighs through his nose. “A Roman affair, these roads?”

“You would know better than I,” Says Francis, then proceeds to lean forward, drawing James in to rest his head on his shoulder. “Pardon your old man, James. I meant no offence.” He turns to place a kiss on his temple. “Especially not to your skill for storytelling.”

“Forgiven.” He takes a deep breath, inhaling Francis’ scent, closing his eyes. “Only You know I worry, when you get quiet. I think, for you, there is truly no place more dangerous to be then alone with your thoughts, for sooner or later you’ll find another cross to bear in them. When you don’t talk to me, I can’t be there for you, and that makes me feel useless.”

“James,” Another kiss is laid on his cheek. “You might be a knight now, but you cannot champion me in all things. I’m bitter, not brittle, and would have told you as soon as I knew what to make of all this.”

He recalls a more weather-worn Francis hissing at him _“There’s already a saint James, you arse!”_ when he found out about the infection of his re-opened wounds _. “I’m not letting you carry a goddamn thing until you’re back in England, and even that better be a lemon and nothing else!”_

James does not feel like thinking about his failures at the moment.

“Did it help you like you hoped?”

“Hmm?”

“Drawing , I mean. Would you like me to teach you?”

Francis pulls back, his face thoughtful. “It is too soon to tell what sort of door this little exercise opened for me, but, I think… I would like that very much.”

James turns his chair to the desk, picking up a pen and motioning Francis to retake his own. If he can help Francis out of this, then he would what he can. “Your proportions are rather good, actually…”

They go like that for half an hour or so, drawing a polar bear mid-stride, no blood, no destruction, just an animal in its element. They pause every now and then for James to give some vocal instructions, until James feels at ease enough to turn his sheet upside-down and draw what he did not dare breach with Harry.

Francis stops his work and looks at what he was doing for a few minutes, before asking “Is that our lady silence?”

James frowns as he keeps sketching. “It’s sad, isn’t it, that we never learned her name after everything. Didn’t apologize properly. Didn’t thank her like we should have. I tried to tell her, after she helped us talk to the family Irving brought back to camp. I hope she knew I meant it.”

She always had a proud look to her, and no tears after her father died. The moment he gave it any thought he realized she was probably trying to put on a brave face, same as the rest of them. He remembers how glad she looked at the sight of the family’s familiar faces, and tries to make her appear more like that on page.

“I should think she did, James, or she wouldn’t let us see her like that, with her guard down. She and doctor Goodsir were very dear to one another.”

But James, in his own mind, is doubly guilty. For most of his life, up until a few months ago, he kept his origins a shameful secret, stirring like bile in his belly. Every so often he wanted to vomit it all up - there were half a dozen times he almost told Ned Charlewood, told Dundy, asked his aunt, but always backed down as soon as he began. Never saying much about Brazil or Portugal, never speaking the language after becoming an officer. His friends would burn in the sun while he gained a tan and say “ _Jas, you lucky bastard_ ,” and he would wish to burn with them rather than stand out in this.

Now, after what feels like a lifetime since their first encounter, half-Portuguese and half-woman, James can’t help but think he should have been her loudest advocate. How much disaster did his cowardice caused them?

He adds texture to her plaits, one gentle stroke after another as Francis lightly presses his hand to his left forearm. “You are wonderful in this,” The man says quietly. “I feel like I should tell you that more. The first time I’ve seen your art, it nearly angered me that you possess such skill.”

“Most things about me angered you then.”

“More fool I,” He answeres gently, “I dare say you could have gone professional should you wished it. The resemblance is striking.”

“There will certainly be quite a few more good men on this earth if I had.”

Francis scoffs audibly. “And you speak to me about self-flagellation! Listen here, James, you _know_ none could have done so well with so little. Four-and-thirty and in charge of entire exposition in all but name since Sir John –“ But James cannot stand this talk now.

“Do you remember when we came back to camp, Francis? When we told the men of the bounty? Their faces? I do not mean to be insensitive, or fight with you, only tell me what you know.”

Francis’ face softens in confusion. “They were all relieved. Cheer returned to them after that – I’m certain. Edward was smiling for a good hour at the sight of it, that much I remember clearly.”

James looks away, a clear memory of his own playing in his mind, of how some of the men looked back at him with such anxiety in their eyes - not only of disbelief but almost dread. As if the concept of good luck was so outlandish to them that even food was now regarded as a suspicious stranger.

Even with the cheer that sounded from most, the force of the lieutenants’ hands on his shoulders and back, with Dundy going as far as to kiss him on the cheek, he felt the dread of those men pouring into him, making home at the back of his head, as if god’s own marksman laid on a nearby hill, taking aim.

A strange thing, surviving: the longest lasting suffer the most, and yet are the lucky ones.

He kept the pelt. A part of it. Head to chest. No as a trophy of victory but as one of survival. A reminder rather than a prize. Francis understood that, thankfully. It now rested at the bottom of the chest in which he kept his petticoats.

Seeing James failing to answer must have frightened Francis, for he opens his mouth to speak again. “Do you know why I wanted to draw the bear? Hmm?” He tilts his head to catch his eyes, and places a hand at the back of his neck. “Because the worst of this to me, as that I seem to recall all of our anxieties, and so few of our joys, while knowing full well most must have come from you, or due to you. You told me, so many times over, how none of this is my fault, and now I feel I failed you, James, if you do not believe that to be true for you. Only the worst fools there would think that, would fail to put their trust in you. Only a bunch of knaves, who would rob their brothers-in-arms from a life-saving meal, and me, until only seconds before it was too late.”

A more rational, more forgiving part in his mind knows it is likely true, that he is not to blame for that flood of misfortune they found themselves drenched in, but every so often, over fifty icy hands reach for him, move past his skull and touch his very brain. No reason can warm him then. Ghost are irrational: They are visible, tangible grief, and in such numbers will likely be eternally present. His best chance against them is to have living men stand before them, hiding them from him, keeping them out of sight and mind.

“I think, for now, winter is not yet far enough behind us. The ground is still harsh, and there are many men to burry. Give me summer, sunlight, heat, and they shall make me a more forgiving man.”

Francis smiles at him indulgently, and rubs his forearm for a moment. “That makes one of us then – in summer I sweat like a pig, and thus smell like one too. If you thought you’ve seen me ill-tempered before, prepare yourself now, for you might reconsider our arrangement.” At that, James shoves him lightly, making them both huff a laugh. “But honestly man, if it weighs on you now you must unburden yourself now. Both of us want it for each other as well as ourselves, even if with less conviction, and with your bravery and my impatience, you’d think we would have started in earnest sooner.”

He pauses to rub his forehead again, this time in thought rather than pain. “May I see the pelt, James?”

James, not knowing what to say to all that, gets up and heads to his room without a word, expecting Francis would follow, and starts digging through the chest. He yanks it out, hands it over, and stands still in front of Francis, the petticoats he removed from on top of it laying folded around his feet, and waits for him to speak.

“I remember it being smaller,” He feels it up with the palm of his hand, his voice a whisper. “maybe it was relief that it wasn’t Tuunbaq, or how it didn’t feed the men for as long as I would have like but… This isn’t even the whole thing…” He sits down on James’ bed, placing the pelt on his lap. “How many meals did we get from it?”

“Eight. All the sick drank from its blood and we made soup from the bones, as well. Before we were even done the carcass started attracting birds and we shot and ate them too.”

“How… Long after did Irving spy the Netsilik family?”

“Five days After.”

Francis merely nods, before leaning his back on the bed with his legs still on the ground. James comes over and slowly lies down as well, his body directed towards Francis, who stares at the ceiling without saying anything for a long while. “God,” He whispers finally, and then nothing more. James places a hand on his chest, and like that they remain for a few silent minutes.

“Is it just the passage, Francis? Did you catch yourself forgetting anything else that confused you?”

“I - No. No, I don’t think so.” He is still looking away from him, looking at nothing, going away inside. James leans closer into him, embracing him with one arm over his torso and the other at his crown. He wishes for one of his dresses, for their soft fabric to lie loosely around them so that he may touch Francis with his bare arms and feet, and let his skirts lie like a gentle cover over both off them. Not long after first allowing himself such a simple-yet-colossal joy, Francis has confessed to enjoying the feeling of been engulfed in such delicate garments.

“Francis, I do not believe what you are experiencing is fundamentally different from the weariness all soldiers face sooner or later, for our survival there was indeed a battle, one much longer and demanding than most. And you were at the very front of it, fo-“

“No you were at the front of it, James! Much longer and much better than me! You were half-dead and still entirely level-headed! Why should you, should the rest of you, recall all our pains so well, when I must watch from the side, unable to determine neither the best nor the worst of it?” He is spiraling with it now, reaping the whirlwind he seeded in himself, the din of it making him deaf to James’ words.

He is trying to get up, but thankfully doesn’t pull away, letting James reach out, making himself possible to follow. James looks at him starkly for a few moments, nodding in silent thought and setting his jaw. “I do not think I ever mentioned before, but my brother is a rather sickly man, as well as a melancholy one. The former could be says about uncle as well, to an extent. I, on the other hand, used to pride myself in my health until recently, but was always well aware it is a double-edged sword.”

He keeps on petting Francis’ hair for a bit, watching the way it caught the candles’ light, wanting to stop there and yet continuing. Brave, Francis called him. He would hate to disappoint. “I remember a miserable winter, when Will was dreadfully ill, and despite our young age at the time I can still recall how for a horrible minute I thought ‘one day, I will burry my brother’. Same for the bout of sickness on the Cornwallis. Same, I imagine, as you felt on our walk. I was half-dead, as you says, and now it seems I half-haunt you. All of us men, we were afraid to die, and you in your health were afraid to burry us. That is a different load, my love.”

The wind subsided, and only hushed howls remains. Francis eyes are red. He is tired now, giving in to comfort. “If only there was a method to this… When I came back from the south my hands were shaking and my thoughts a-flame, and now there is no tremble to them but a mist in my mind.”

“Perhaps it will lift, perhaps not – most memories grow dull and distant in time, but some sharpen, and return to us. But it seems to me as if you are seeking the punishment you think you deserve, as opposed to the misfortune that you have received. Let it be enough, Francis. Let yourself think of this torment as enough, so you may come away from it.” He caresses his dear face, and the man turns to the touch, closing his eyes. “Come away with me,”

Francis inhales deeply, curling himself into James. “At the very least, steady hands make better art. And the image on those pages may grow sharp in time.”

James kisses his hair, his forehead, his nose, before pressing them together. “That’s the spirit. It pulled many a-man out of turmoil, and if you indeed like it I would love for you to be a partner to me in this as well.”

Francis sniffes wetly. “Might take a while yet.”

He kisses him again on the mouth, still closed-lipped but for a longer moment and with more force to it. The pelt lies beneath them now, and for a second he wishes for the feel of it against his cheek. “I do not mind the wait.”

Francis is shutting his eyes again, for the first time this evening with his face relaxes. This sort of talk always worn him, particularly if they raise their voices on one another, but he knows letting the man fall asleep before eleven would mean he’d be up in an ungodly hour.

With a grunt, James sits up, Francis’ hands following him as he does. He turns back to the man, who is clearly displeased by the action, and smiles at his grumpy face, extending his hand. “Come, there’s dinner to be had.”

**Author's Note:**

> i actually had to sit down and calculate how many meals could a small-ish polar bear provide. you guy were right - writing gets super weird at times.


End file.
